Gods of Chaos
by Taluliaka
Summary: To-do list: Onee. Get out of Ark-hammm. Two. Suit up. Threeeeee. Find my KNIVES. Four. Make HIM playyyyy.
1. Midnight Musings

**Gods of Chaos**

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**Disclaimer: **_I do not own anything in the universe of Batman._

**Chapter 1: Midnight Musings**

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"_Remark the cat...who hesitates towards you..."_

And here they come again. Five sets of hoof beats, across the desert to my doorstep...

Wait. No.

Six.

They've brought a friend this time. Delightful. I wonder if this one likes to kick, or punch more. Or maybe he's a biter.

Kinky.

* * *

"_In the light of the door, which opens on her...like a grin_."

After a while, it all becomes routine.

They'll enter, blocking out the light from the corridor, _six _blocks of shadow. The camera behind them will have shut its beady little eye for the night. They'll glare, attempt to look...intimidating.

They will fail. Carter, especially, didn't attend that _par-tic-ular_ course at Orderlies Inc. He scrunches up his face (it must be hard to see out of those tiny eyehole slits) and tries to appear frightening. If they thought I would cry...

Beg...

(_dieee in the streets_)

Hmm.

Well, they thought wrong.

I'll laugh, though, I guess.

Even the worst comedians get a pity laugh. Even from rough crowds. Even from _me_.

So it's Carter and his Scrunch of Doom, its Daniels and that overworked upper frame (his legs are like noodles) (maybe I'll break one) (or both) (maybe I won't have to, and the weight of all those muscles will do all the work for me one day...toothpicks splintered on the sidewalk). Now that'd be a _sight_. That might make me more than just...chuckle.

Ha.

* * *

"_You see the border of her coat is torn and stained with sand_."

And Swanson too (_the gang's all here_) and he's got a mean pinched look about him, like a mongrel dog, like a one-legged seagull, all grit and nastiness and cheap (petrol) cologne. He is backstreet alleyways and the shadows at the back of bus stop shelters. He _bores_ me.

You are boring, son of Swan. Go eat some garbage. Strike a match and go up in flames (you're flammable enough) and maybe, just maybe, then you might be _interesting _enough for me to notice you. If you scream loud enough, I might even put you out again.

(see him running from the porch like some kind of human TORCH)

_o-haych-em-why-gee-oh-dee-i-em-oh-en-eff-eii_-_arr-eeeeee_

"Ha-hee-hee-ha.

_HA-HA-HAA-HA._

_HA._

_Ahhhh..."_

Who else? It's hard to concentrate, with all these _horrorshow_ visions in my head. Swanny a-flailing at the bus stop. The bus driver yelling at him.

_Don't flag down a bus unless you want to get on-stop screaming you flaming piece-of-shit-ha._

Ummm...

So. _Fred_ is here. _Fred_ doesn't like me very much. I don't think _Fred_ likes clowns very much either. One too many childhood parties ended with tears and stained panties for Freddie, methinks. Oh dear. Fred doesn't show up every night, actually. Has fits of the conscience, standing in front of some cheap mirror, Gothamite whore in the background, snorting up some coke, and he thinks to himself: _Should I be beating up mental patients? Somewhere, deep down, I know that's WRONG. With a capital double U. _

Ah, but childhood scars do run...deep.

Some deeper than others.

And Rogers.

Mister Rogers.

Rogers, apparently, just enjoys beating up people. Ones that wear pyjamas during the daytime (and night time-stylish and functional!) Ones that are too busy drooling to fight back. He is the childhood bully turned crazy-nurse. And he don't like it. I supp-ose he could just get another job, but hey, why bother? That takes effort. That would probably make him _grunt _with effort. Like he grunts every time he hits me.

Gah.

Guh.

Humf.

"HA."

Maybe he just likes it. Like me. We go well together actually. Like squealers and gasoline. Like fashionable suits and secret pockets. He gets off giving the punches and I get off receiving them. Like little friendly messages that pass between us: did you like that/yes I did/well here comes another one/yay.

He is a little bit mouthy though (in between grunts). He likes name-calling, like every good bully does. Freak and clown and monster and retard and psycho and scarface and puppet and bitch and crazy and ugly and freak and stupid and monster and-whoops. Started repeating myself there.

Just like he does.

I have heard though, on the grapevine- that his first name is Kelly.

"Whoo-ha-haHA-HAAA."

Kelly Rogers. Every time, it gets me.

Try a bit harder...Kelly.

You punch like a girl...KELLY.

Who you callin' bitch...KELLIEEEEEEEEEEEE.

* * *

"_And you see...the corner of her eye...twist...like a crooked pin."_

And hereeeee's Newbie.

Ooh, he's a tough one, this one.

Haven't seen him around bef...wait. Yes I have. Fifteen days ago. En route to a session. He passed by in the corridor, he had (snake eyes-black eyes-that's different) y_es,_ and he was new, young, angry. He had on civvie clothes, a ragged leather jacket, but fake, too poor or dumb to go for the real deal, faded blue jeans and this the fake faded, that you can buy in a shop, so that says what...fashion-conscious? He had greasy hair...and maybe...seven holes in his forearm, sleeves rolled back too far, _you ain't gonna last too long here if you're a druggo there hotshot, _was what I thought back then. But now...

So not a druggo, then. Not _trrrripping_ the light fantastic.

Low-level scum. Petty thief? Lowest of the criminals, fish so small the sharks can't even feel the bite. But still. Interesting. What's he here for? And I don't mean right now, and I don't mean on earth. It's the in-between that's caught my attention.

Twist...like a _crooked _pin.

Hmm.

Stay tuned then. He could be a _crazy_.

* * *

So here they all are, and here I am, and it's time to get the beat on.

"Time to get up, shithead!"

Ah, Kelly's one liners. Works of art, every one.

"_Recitar? Mentre preso dal delirio_?"

"Huh?"

Not a speck of class between them. Or maybe they've just never seen _The Untouchables_.

He sends one of yours to the hospital...

You send one of his to the morgue.

Oh, and I've sent more than one.

Six.

Seven-eight-nine-ten.

And more.

To

the

_Morgue_.

Anyway...ooh. Lookie here. Newbie's got himself a _love ring_. Could be a fashion ring, I guess. It's certainly tacky enough. But it could be from a girrrrrlly. Or a lover. (what dream are they living?) Love. Rings. Ha.

Rogers steps in first, of course, there's always gotta be a leader, and drags me by the straitjacket off my mattress. His first punch also hits my straitjacket, which makes me laugh.

"Even though it _seems_ to be part of me...there, Kelly-pie...trust me, I can't feel anything through all this padding."

This makes him growl (as in terrier not Doberman) and he starts in with the boot, whack-whack-whack-_whack.._

Annnnd there it is!

"Aaaah...that's _better_..." That last kick has a shiver bucking up my spine. I'm tasting blood. Ooh, he _is trying_ _tonight_.

"So you've had a baaaaad day..." I sing, and aw, now everyone's pitching in. Daniels throwing me into the padded wall (a lot harder than the name implies) and Swanson leering in the background. He likes to _watch_, does Swannyson. He'll only kick in when I've stopped twitching.

They're scavengers, seagulls, after all.

"Come on kid, have a go."

"Oh you don't have to encourage _Newbie_, Fred, I'm sure he'll be just fiiine."

I give him a flash of my pearly goldens.

Newbie flinches, just a little.

No, don't tell me Newbie's _soft_. That takes all the fun out of it, if he's soft. I don't have time for soft things.

It takes a while, for Newbie to unfurl into his new role. He lets Fred and Daniels and Rogers go to town and hangs back with stare-y leery Swanny. I get a few good kicks in, one straight to Fred's nose, and for once, he spills blood before I do.

He's roaring and swearing at me (blood's pouring onto my face thanks-very-much) and my disadvantage groundwise takes a nasty turn when he kicks me in the temple.

Oooh, stars and rockets!

Ouuuch. Annnd...

Now I'm all fuzzy.

The blows are like drumbeats now, far away and dulled. How boring.

Newbie's joining in!

CRACK! Boot across the jaw. Now..._that's _gonna raise a lump come morning.

...

"Hey! Hey guys! Ease up a bit...someone's gonna notice..."

That's Carter, whining. As usual. Grow some _balls_, Carter. 'Cause I'm taking the ones you already got.

"Are you kidding? Who the fuck wants to get close enough to _him_ to find that out?"

"More people than you know. It's my...ha-ha.. animal magnetism."

That gets another blow to the head...more fuzziness...and a slap that snaps my neck back.

What? A slap?

"Hoo-HAHAHA- you didn't tell me...we were having...a catfight! HEE-hahaha!"

Newbie (by luck or design I wonder) manages to crack an already battered rib, and soon the floor is covered with my juicy red innards. Yum. I'm laughing still, through a mouth full of gore, and the ground seems to be tilting under me, even though, I'm _pretty_ sure, I'm already lying down.

The ground is still rocking wildly when they decide to leave. It's kind of like being on a ship, what with the pitching and the rolling and that rock down deep in my gut that's trying to work its way up the back of my throat.

My head is bright-white and bursting. I taste my scars, and my blood, and thready strips of cotton.

Bat wings brush the very edges of my vision, and I let the dark come down.

I wonder...

If He misses me.

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**Author's Notes:** The song Joker is singing as the orderlies enter his cell is 'Grizabella the Glamour Cat' from the musical _Cats_. For I, like several other authors, think that the Joker likes musicals.

"Cry, beg, die in the streets" is a misquoted line from Baz Luhrmann's _Romeo and Juliet_ film. Everyone has those movie lines stuck in our heads that come out at random moments.

"See him running from the porch like some kind of human torch" is from the song OHMYGODIMONFIRE by Logan Whitehurst and the Junior Science Club. It also has the awesome songs 'The Volcano Song' and 'Fred the Beard'.

'Horrorshow visions' is from _A Clockwork Orange_.

"_Recitar? Mentre preso dal delirio?"_ is from the song 'Vesti La Giubba' in the opera _Pagliacci_. It translates to: "Go on stage? While I'm nearly delirious?" There are also lines about putting on your 'white-face' and making people laugh and it does remind me of the Joker. It is also performed in the film _The Untouchables_, which has the line, "He sends one of yours to the hospital, you send one of his to the morgue." It has many gang wars and Sean Connery and much death.

"So you've had a bad day" is from the song _Mad World _by Gary Jules.

'He', of course, is Batman.

I attempted in this chapter to demonstrate how quickly the Joker's mind works. In between the lines of that song, in the space of a few seconds, the Joker is thinking, analyzing, planning. Everything's getting a bit too routine for our favourite clown. Newbie's a bit of a puzzle, but the Joker will have him, and any way he can help/entertain/amuse him sussed out very soon. He also remembers everything from when he saw Newbie for the first time, even though it was both a while ago and for a brief moment. His memory is a part of his deadly intelligence.

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**Next Chapter:** Sessions and drugs and no matter how much you try to crush the Joker into a routine, he likes to pop out at strange angles.

Any comments or concrit will be well received,

Until next time,

_**Taluliaka.**_


	2. Dicks and Tricks

**Gods of Chaos**

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**Chapter 2: Dicks and Tricks**

**Disclaimer:** _See Chapter 1_.

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Waking up in your own goo is an int-er-esting sensation.

I can recommend it for _drei _reasons.

As in _eins_...for the orderly wrestling with the door, _zwei_ for the sight of Yours Truly asleep (or dead?) and _dreiiii..._for the hook around the ankle that sends him

CRASHING

to the ground.

Heel to the windpipe- whacko!

(Croak all y'like there little froggie- help help help help)

NO ONE IS COMING.

Not for you.

Well...not in time.

Foot to the nose- blood pouring all over my nice stained floor, you are messy aren't you –let me see if I can fix that.

...

...

It takes a little technique of course, everything does, but all you need is the right angle. Straight back there into the skull, drive that cartilage deeeeep.

HAHA-Ha.

Shards in your brain, froggie?

Help heeeeelp my nose is killing meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.

SCREAM LITTLE FROGGIE.

Scream for me.

His eyes are rolling back to show those bloody whites- like he's trying to see the damage-hmmm- can ya see much Johnny?

There are people yelling, screaming, closer closer closer, where o where o WHERE has Johnny got to?

Step away from the dearly departed, two steps, three, sidle away – amazing what a good first impression can do – I didn't do it, it wasn't _me_ how could it be when I was allll the way over here.

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About ten people attempt to fight their way through my too-small door. All those doggies sniffing out the kill- half of them don't even know why they're here, like that one young doctor clipboard still in hand come to see the carnage and is that the janitor?

HeehahHAAHAHA.

I get slammed (rudely) up against the wall (hello old friend) once again by four brainless apes (orderlies...supposedly).

Ooh, it's Dr Ark-hammm himself, up in the early hours of the morning. He looks as tired as dear old Commish. Same wrinkles around the eyes, too many corpses, too many crazies.

I can have that effect on people.

Ha.

He sees me for the first time, goes white as a virgin in snow. I _am_ difficult to take in all my glory before cockcrow- I know- I myself either have to sleep in 'til noon or avoid mirrors completely. It's difficult, because most of the apartments I choose- some abandoned, some more

_Recently_

Than others- every wall has one. Why don't people just _take_ their mirrors with them? I don't get it. Although...without all those mirrors...

Stork would still be able to see.

(Ah, Stork. You never were a very good henchclown.

Who sneaks into a man's bedroom in the _dark_ – waking up to curious little peepers peeping in the dark- I don't lock my door but still –respect sometimes costs blood.

An eye for an eye, Stork. You see _meeeeeeeeee..._

And I make sure you don't see anything. A. Gain.)

It's amazing how quickly the old vocabulary treks downhill once pain is introduced.

It goes from 'I'm gonna kill ya you fucking freak-face dickhole' to 'oh shit oh shit oh shit my eyessss arrrrrggghhhhaaaa'.

Well.

In some people.

Ya really don't notice unless you're listening for it.

* * *

Dr Ark (hammmmm) massages his temples.

"God...um...get a nurse down here! Someone...Goddamnit!"

That's what I like about the good Doctor. He's so...eloquent in times of stress.

"Sorry to hafta break it to ya, Doc. But I don't...think that's gonna help Johnny very much."

Oh come on now, Doc. Look at me.

I am speaking to you, and all.

No?

No?

He just squares his shoulders against the mean nasty homicidal scary man's comments (helpful ones) and starts a conversation with Clipboard Doctor and Janitor. HA.

Ignoring people is a children's game, Doc.

I try and crack my neck (gotta loose that built up tension in the old joints) (don't really get much exercise nowadays) but I am thwarted by Uglies 1-4 and their manhandling.

"Cool it fellas..." Purry tone, just like a cat.

Hoo-whee we have some homophobias floating round this cell _don't we_?

"I'm not gonna bite ya..."

_Much. _

Ooh elbow to the gut now that's just mean. First to strike (for the other team maybe?) Awkward sexuality is _fun_.

"Treat 'em mean and keep 'em keen is that the go...Kendall?"

That's right. I can read nametags Kendall.

Kendall-Candle.

Flaming.

Away.

The amazing flaming Candall.

Hoo-hee-ha-hohoho.

Am I prettier up close?

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But Arkham decides to put an end to all the fun (_mine_).

"HEY! Enough of that...( he sighs)...(its a long one)...take him to solitary. We've got to clean this mess up. Get his doctor...which one is it now? Julie?"

No.

"You mean...Rich-hard?"

All eyes on me.

I _don't like_ him.

Richard.

Rich.

Dick.

Dr Dick.

Arkham's eyes flutter over me and away. Ya can't trust a man who doesn't keep eye contact.

"Right. Someone get Richard down here. Tell him I want him in my office five minutes ago!"

And that's all I get to hear before it's off to wend our merry way to the solitary cells.

Annnnd

My straitjacket

Is becoming

Loose.

What with all the _movement_...

Well then. Fun times are here again. And all that jazz.

_Jazz-zzzzzz. _

Tickly word.

* * *

Whoo-_ha-ha_-hoo.

Look who's on sentry duty today in solitary, gents.

It's _Fred._

_Clown-hating Fred_, red-weeping Fred, nose-breaking, pants-wetting _Fred_.

"Hiya Fred...how's the _nose_?"

He glares at me.

Tries to.

His nose is all blotchy and red and possibly broken. For shame.

(Ha.)

Ugly No. 2 reaches for a door.

"No." (That's Fred, not me. I _like_ solitary. Lots of time to sleep.)

He grins at me- oh what does that nasty grin portend I wonder?

It's interesting times I live in, nowadays.

"Put him in here."

Someone gives me a shove so that I narrowly miss the doorframe.

Door clashes shut behind me, cutting off Fred mid-yelping giggle.

And someone

Else

Is in hereeeeeeeeee.

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There's a grunt, like a –waking-up-grunt, like a returning-to-consciousness-kinda-grunt.

Back to the wall, fingers wiggling in their fabric trap, waiting.

Someone must have been a naughty boy, kept down here in the _dark_.

The mattress creaks as he gets up.

Gotta get the jacket off.

There's a scraaaape on the ground.

Gotta get...the jacket OFF.

I rotate my shoulders, feel them crack. The fabric is stretching, but not quickly enough and not far enough.

And here comes the adrenaline, like a syringe-full straight to the heart.

It makes me straighten up. It makes me _see_.

Freedom is only a few rips away.

But so is he.

Someone else- breathing- in the darkness

He must be a bad person, someone bad (not as bad as me)

But still

Something is tearing

My eyes are wide but the darkness is absolute

AND

here

he

comes.

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"So, Mr Joker..."

He gives a wide white toothy grin.

Doctor Dick.

He'd be handsome, if it weren't for that weak chin and that anxious flicker in his eyes. Sort of in the same way that Harvey Dent would be handsome if it weren't for the fact that half of his face has fallen off.

My handiwork.

Hee-Ha-hA.

"Would you like to tell me what happened in your room this morning? To John?"

"Ya can't...figure it out yourself there _Dick_? Don't 'cha ever watch C.S.I?"

"Yes, well...I would like to hear it directly from the horse's mouth."

He gives a deep, rich, hearty, false laugh. Like, what, he expects me to join in? Like we could laugh together, then I tell him all my secrets, he writes an article, gets rich, and then we go fishing together on his private yacht. And when he says mouth, his eyes keep flickering to...

Ah.

_The scars._

Everyone wants to know about the scars.

I don't mind telling, of course. There's nothing like breaking the ice of an awkward first meeting than with that conversational _gem._

He's got to earn it though. I don't like him.

"Weeeeelllll..."

They've put me in yet another straitjacket. How am I supposed to gesture?

I'd gesture with my legs but they're chained to the floor.

They've also scrubbed all the blood off.

It's probably a good thing, seeing as most of it wasn't mine.

"Johnny interrupted my nap. And I'm not a morning person."

Dick scribbles something down on his notepad. Why do psychologists all have such bad handwriting?

"Okay...well how about what happened in solitary? Would you like to tell me about that?"

No.

No I really don't think I do.

...

"Ya know what I like about you Dick? You're such a...straight-forward person. Not like my last doctor. Oh, he was such a _freak_."

He can't tear his eyes away from me as I lick my scars.

"The way he...killed himself like that? All that blood...and his parents too...Now no normal person wants to kill their parents."

Come on, look me in the eye, Richard.

Richard the Lionheart.

Richard the brave.

He does, finally, freezes like a rabbit in the eye of a shotgun.

"Do you ever _want_ to kill people...Dick?"

His handsome face is turning green. That toothy grin is fading, drooping, collapsing from his face. Like melting wax.

He's trying to recover, failing, rattling his notes, trying to talk over such a dry mouth- now why did that happen- gotta remain calm in front of your patient there _Doc_- don't let your pen roll too far my way...

It's too easy. Let him off the hook- wriggling little fishy- back to the sea you go. I'm not done with you yet.

You'll leap for the hook again all by yourself, just like all the others did. Harleen and Julie and Benjamin and W. Prescott and for those few eventful hypno-sessions, Hugo Strange.

"I _guess_ the reason why I kill so many people...is because of my past."

He's sitting bolt upright again. He can barely believe it. Only six sessions in and he's getting the story?

I look past him to the blank pale walls, down at the papers on his desk, at the tan line visible under his blue collared shirt.

Tick tock tick tock.

I make him wait.

And then, finally, stuttering, unable to believe his

_Good. Luck_

He asks me...himself.

"Would you b-be willing...I mean...would you tell me about...y-your...scars?"

Richard the Lionheart, lips all trembly, heart all thuddy, face flushed like an addict, take a look at yourself.

In your last moments.

"_Ccccccc-ertainly_."

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**Author's Notes:**

_Eins, zwei, drei_ are the German one, two, three, just in case anyone didn't know.

Doctors Jeremiah Arkham, Hugo Strange and Harleen Quinzel are from the Bat-verse.

But Julie, Benjamin, W. Prescott, Fred, Kendall and Richard are all mine, and if they are somehow randomly Arkham doctors, it's a coincidence, or they've come out of the deep dark patches of my memory.

Richard the Lionheart was a very famous King of England, back in Crusade times.

And if anyone's a little confused about the solitary scene, it wasn't his imagination or a dream. They did shove him in there with someone nasty.

**Next Chapter: **It's all fun and games until someone gives Joker a shot of truth drug.

Reviews are appreciated,

_**Taluliaka.**_


	3. Dark Red Love Knot

**Gods of Chaos**

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Disclaimer: See Chapter 1.

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Chapter 3: Dark Red Love-Knot

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Still _considering _Doctor Dick.

On the

Edge

of his seat.

The edge is a dangerous place to be.

Either you fall...or you thrive

There

on the

_Edge._

Batman's good at it.

I'm good at it (the best) (ya cling with a finger and sometimes you let yourself just...fall...for a second)

But Dick?

I'm counting on him not making it

To breakfast.

Counting on it

As in:

_One._ Spin him a pretty tale. (pretty one, pretty one, pretty _girl at the window_)

_Two._ Pull out the rug. (watch him stagger- confusion, betrayal, hatred, fear)

_Three._ Give him a push (nudge- some people don't even need that)

But not everyone has

Magic Coins

To make their decisions in this world.

Batface, Twoface, Clownface...

_No_face.

Ya gotta have some character to live out here, and ready-come-on-down-Richard: you just don't got what it takes.

Ya don't got the _balls_.

* * *

He's my _captive_ audience.

He can wait a bit longer, while I gather my thoughts,

Pluck them from the darkness

And mix them into something new

Pretty girl at the window

Moon like a coin out the window

Moon has a sad face

_Wherrreeee_...have I seen that before?

He likes girls, this one.

I can tell.

Women are too much for him, women like his strict mumsy-kins, oh she was never there for poor little Dick, always too busy at the job, always too busy helping other people and now he's here, a dead-end job (_ya don't graduate from meee_) still trying to please his mother thirty years down the track. Women who have their own ideas...he can't take that.

Oh yes.

_Girrrrrrrls _is what he likes, little girls still tied to the apron-strings, just-like-_him_.

Girls need big strong men to take care of them, don't they Dicky Bird? And you're a big strong man now, all grown up and helping people. Trying to please society,

(that's where he went wrong)

_Have you come here to play Jeeeeeesusssss_

_To the lepers in your head?_

I think ya have, Doc. The _god_ complex (everyone has one, don't be ashamed)

Some are just more right than others.

_Well it's too late _

_Tonight_

_To drag the past out into the liiiiiiiiiiiight..._

But a bedtime story?

I can do that, easy.

* * *

**(tape begins recording)**

P: "Morning, Dick."

D: "Good morning. How did you sle..."

P: "Gotta bone ta pick with ya, Dick. Now... don't. Hee-hee..don't get that idea. It's a fig-ure of speech."

D: "Ha-ha. Yes, well, considering your, um, reputation, it's only logical that I would..."

P: "Oh _shush-shush_. Now...ya gotta understand, Dick, that what I'm telling you isn't what I...uh...told the others. Ya know, um, _Harley_ and _Julie_ and _Benjamin_. This is the real deal. And I think, being, the...honest guy that I am, I should, ya know, get something for this. 'Cause it's painful, this stuff. I can't just...blurt it all out. And I gotta be sure that I'm...talking to the right man, right, ya know...a woman wouldn't understand would they..._you_ know. A guy like _you_. You see, _women_, they cause all the world's problems. Right-right down to the apple, in the ah, Garden of Eden. I mean, right back ta _Biblical times, Dick_! This is a man-to-man thing..."

D: "I completely understand your reticence to speak, Joker, considering your... previous doctors. But I'd like you to know that whatever you feel comfortable telling me, I will certainly do my best to, um..."

P: "I know ya will, Doc. I trust you. Y'know, um, _a lot_. Like more than anyone, around here. As soon as I read your file, I thought to myself, now here is a man in which one can..._confide-uh_."

D: "Well, I am pleased to hear that you trust me on that level Joker. Especially as...well... _Ahem._ And now, would you like..."

P: "I want Grand Theft Auto: Liberty City."

D: "Um...sorry?"

P: "It's a deal, Doc. You get my story-eeee and I get my...game. _Ooh_, and my pick of the lib-rar-y."

D: "Well I don't know if Doctor Arkham will allow..."

P: "Well, I'm not telling this story to Ark-hammm..._am I_?"

D: "I don't know..."

P: "How much do ya reckon my story's worth, Doc?"

D: "What?"

P: "How much do ya reckon, to a um..._doctor. _Like you. How much do ya reckon they would be paid?"

D: "Well, I've never really looked into it..."

P: "But a lot. Right?"

D: "Well, yes..."

P: "Over a million?"

D: "Well...maybe..."

P: "Plus all the prestige. I guess. For, um, working out _The Joker_."

D: "Yes, I..."

P: "_Huh_. Nice to know...I'm worth some-thing to _someone_."

D: "Okay. Okay. Look, now I can't promise anything, I mean the books, that shouldn't be too hard, but...you have to give me some time..."

P: "Ah, Doc? I'm a _terminal_ case. I got all the time. In. The. World. Oh, and one...more...thing."

D: "Y-yes?"

P: "I wanna play my game...in the rec room. With-_out_ a straitjacket. And _with_ all my _friends-ah_. Guy could go crazy, with nobody to talk-uh with but..._himself._ Heh-hoo-ha. Aha."

**(footsteps leaving room)**

P: Hummmm hmmm hmm. Hum. _Oh_. Oh, you, ah, forgot to...don't worry_. I'll_ do it. I'll do it I'll do it...

**(indistinct noises)**

**(tape is switched off)**

* * *

Dick will sing to my tune, eeee-vent-ually.

Back in my cell, staring at the ceiling.

Replaying all those little moments with Him.

That affected voice (or he's gotta lay off the smokes ha-HAHA)

The way He _glares _so...

His eyes are the same colour as mine.

It's gonna be fun, looking up at every roof-top (bat roost) to see Him looking back.

It's gonna be fun, fun fun fun...because He's

(just like me)

We're both too different

To be satis-fied with a...normal life.

* * *

normal life

* * *

But first...play with the puppets.

I've gotta be content with puppets (make 'em dance) but now I've seen the real thing-reminds-me-of-that-night-burning-all-through-my-shoulders-on-light-streaked-roads-each-step-more-real-than-the-last-get-out-of-my-way-truck-all-flipped-driver-all-dead-

_GET. OUT. OF MY WAY_.

This-is- between-me-and-him

_Me-and-Him_

Bullets-shattering-inside-the-car-a-body-jerks-good-out-of-the-way-come-on-hit-me-with-that-Bat-bike-come on-come on_- I wantcha ta' do it_-be-like-me-stop me-_STOP ME_- no-one-else-can-no-one-else-will-except-you-and-I-bet-you-won't-I'm-gonna-show-you-why-we're-different-better-than-mindless-corpses-in-cars-come on-MOVE IT- come on-

Let-me-show-you-how-to-be-_more_

Hit me-hit me-HIT ME-_come on_-I wantcha ta' do it-hit me-_come on_ HIT. ME.

"Oooooohhh _haHA-WHOO-HA_-HA-Haaa."

I like memories, I like this one, I _like _it.

He hit me late-rrrrrrr. At the Station. Thrashing crashing Bat, mask cracking just a little (hello in there) and all for that little...bunny.

Couldn't have that.

Of course.

_Him-and-Me. Me-and-Him_.

No interruptions.

That's how it's gonna stay.

_Two-fiftyeeee-fifty-second-street. Goes up with a Boom,_

_While a Bat saves a Rat_

_Just so I can break himmmm...in. TWO._

"HAAA-hahaaaa-ha-ho-HA."

Mmmmmm...

Memories pass the time, keeps me sharp.

Like a good workout, anddd-yet relaxing, like having a long sleep.

_Ref-resh-ing-uh_ is the word.

Dick comes by.

He's swung the books (of course) (never doubted ya) and I pick a few interesting titles.

Like _Papillon_, original French, front cover falls off (oh ah whoops) in my hands.

What is this doing in...are they honest(not)ly that stupid not to...

"HA HAAA HAA AHA AHAA AHAHAAA haaa whoooo HUH HAAAH."

Everyone is uneasyyyyy...but no one likes a sad clown.

"I guess...you like that one?"

Doctor Dick, looking worried that his meal ticket might not sing. Like a _birdddddddd-ah._

And then he steps closer.

"You speak French?"

I clutch the book to my be-pyjama-ed self.

"Only on uh...only uh, on _Wednesdays_."

They leave finally, with Dick singing promises about my game (promises promises people promise almost anything when there's sharp things involved)

(like money) (or knives)

Hmm.

Stabbity stab. Cash grab.

I read _Papillon_, on my mattress, feet up on the wall.

Occassionally pages fall out and land on my face.

Old, yellowed, crunchy.

Like leaves in fall.

I like it, it reminds me of

-something-

So I tear more out from the end (no more ending now no one else gets to read the end-ing NOW)

And it's good.

For a while.

* * *

I get my game the next day.

I also get the rec room, but alllllllllllllll to myself, unfortunate-lee.

Dick's upset, but he just couldn't risk the safety of all the blah

_Blah blah blah_

Blee blah

Fail.

So I choose a (purple) car, and run over prostitutes on the beachfront sidewalks until I feel _better_.

(It takes three hours, forty-six minutes-and ten seconds- for me to feel...better.)

Dick's face is all flushed (pay up pay up pay up time) he's thinking.

Story plus article plus _The Joker_ = money = I guess other things.

Like women. (Sorry Dick, girrrrlllss)

I don't need..._money_...to get women.

Or men.

Batmen.

Ha.

* * *

**(tape begins recording)**

D: This is Doctor Richard Jacques with Patient #1 AKA Joker. The time is 3:00pm.

D: So, Joker, today I'd like to talk about your scars.

P: Mm-hmm.

D: Would you like to begin or would you like me to ask questions and you can answer...whichever you're comfortable with, of course.

P: Um...well...how about _you_ choose there, Doc.

D: Well, okay then. How about I ask you some questions?

P: Okay.

D: How old were you when it happened?

P: Weeeelll, seeing as how I don't know how old I am...uh _now_, I um...really couldn't tell ya.

D: Any idea?

P: Fine...I was...um...sixteen.

D: Okay.

P: _Sweet _sixteen.

D: Alright, sweet sixteen. Now...were the wounds...self-inflicted?

**(period of silence)**

P: Why don'tcha tell meeee? Well, uh, _this _one...is quite, ah long. Artistic, wouldn't ya say but uh..._this_ one, Doc? Do you think...I put down my knife...and decided to use...a _razzzz-or_ on the other...one?

**(silence)**

P: How 'bout... I tell the story.

D: If that would make y...

P: So I had this _girl_-friend, when I was, um, younger. And she was...just absolutely gor-ge-ous ya know. She had this long black hair, and she was just the sweetest girl you ever did see. And she was the daughter of this bartender, who owned this bar which catered to...well...all the unsavoury types. Ya know..._criminals_. And there was this guy that worked there, this grunt which stacked boxes and cleaned the bar, and he loved her. He was crazy, jealous of me-and of-herrr. I would always meet her at night, so her daddy didn't know, and one night this _grunt_...he tells some of the local crims where she's gonna be waiting. And when I get there...that night...she's dead.

**(silence)**

P: They raped her, my sweet girl, and they beat her until she _broke_. And I was late that night, and when I came, and I found her...when someone ya love gets murdered and you weren't there to protect her... it _changes_ ya. On the inside. So, anyway, I find out who did it, and I go after 'em. But I'm just a kid, and they smack me around and laugh in my face. And they tell me that I shouldn't take it so seriously, there are plenty more bitches around town, and that she wasn't even that good...of a _fuck_...anyway. And then...they carve me up. So I wait 'til my face heals up, and then I go after 'em again.

D: ...And what happened?

P: I got shot down. Like a dog. On the highway.

**(silence)**

P: Sometimes the direct approach ain't the best way, Doc. Ya know? Hee-ha-ha-HAHAAA!

**(silence)**

P: (continues to laugh)

**(tape is switched off)**

* * *

Doctor Dick is pissed. Off.

(At me)

He storms into my session with Harl(y)een (apparently I was _more stable_ with her)

Waving around a wad of papers

Some spiral to the table and I read

Upside down

Some lines which sound

Familiar (_dog-highway-red-love-knot-landlord-daughter_)

And accuses me of making up my story.

I mean. Well.

Duh.

Ha.

Quinzel leaps to defend me (she's tiny next to him but so brave my little _protector_)

While

I

_Laugh_.

* * *

The next morning, a nurse jabs my arm.

"What's this for?" I ask, reasonably (it _is_ my arm)

But she slopes off, guarded by orderlies, and doesn't say a word.

How ruuuude.

New medication (again). Some make me sick, others make me sleepy, but this one seems to be...

There's something..._different_ about this one.

And when Harleen asks me (oh-so-casually) even though her fingers are twitching and her face is all lined with worry (why I wonder) I _like _talking.

She turns off the tape

And she asks me about some things

And then the scars

And I answer (what harm can it do)

(I feel so...)

Why not talk?

Why. Not?

_I like_ talking.

So I will.

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

The chapter name is a line from the poem 'The Highwayman'. "But the landlord's black-eyed daughter, Bess, the landlord's daughter, Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair."

Song lyrics come from 'One' by U2. "Have you come here to play Jesus to the lepers in your head" and "It's too late tonight to drag the past out into the light."

I got the idea of The Joker liking Grand Theft Auto from one of Lauralot's magnificent stories 'Act Like We Are Fools'. And Liberty City is quite a fun, though disturbing game. I used to spend my time when playing it running prostitutes over, then hijacking the ambulance that came to save them, then joyriding with the ambulance through the city and leaving it somewhere crowded to blow up, and then when the police eventually came, steal one of their cars. Yeah. It kinda turns you into a criminal.

_Papillon_ is a memoir by the convicted criminal Henri Charrière, about his various escapes from penal institutions in the 1930's. It was originally written in French, which would be why the wardens at Arkham might have overlooked it when screening out all 'dangerous' reading materials. Or it could have been smuggled in some time ago for a patient and left in the library. The Joker is amused by the fact that a book about escaping has been overlooked. Oh, and he can read French.

Joker's scar story is loosely based on the poem 'The Highwayman' by Alfred Noyes. The bit about being shot down like a dog in the highway is very close to a line from the poem, and that's how Dick worked it out. I imagine he has a lot of random things in his head, and this poem might be one of them. Maybe he read it once, years ago, and remembered part of it. It is one of those epic tragedies, and I think it would make a good 'bedtime story'.

The drug Joker is given at the end of the chapter is sodium thiopental. It is still used in some countries in interrogations, and it apparently makes the victim 'chatty' and willing to cooperate with their captors. Technically, it's illegal to use in the US, but there were (are?) some programs in which it was used on mental patients. And I imagine Arkham Asylum has a lot of practices that aren't mentioned in the inspections.

Annnnd my text and spacing is screwing with me, goddamnit, so if it looks weird, that's this website's doing.

**Next Chapter: **Dick and Quinzel's little experiment has a lot of consequences for The Joker. And he doesn't like that. Not. One. Bit.

Feedback is appreciated,

_**Taluliaka**_.


	4. Meaningless Noise

**Gods of Chaos**

**

* * *

**

**Disclaimer: **_**See Chapter 1.**_

**Chapter 4- Meaningless Noise**

**-

* * *

**

The tape cuts into her hand.

Doctor Harleen Quinzel is pacing in Arkham's staff bathroom, back and forth across the dingy tiled floor.

She doesn't know what to do.

* * *

It is very rare in a person's life that they can claim that a day was at once the greatest and yet the most terrible day of their lives.

But Harleen thinks she can.

When _he_ arrived, it was her chance. To crawl out from under the psycho-therapy rock and be noticed. He was, at the time of his capture, the most wanted man in Gotham. As a criminal, of course, but every psychologist worth their salt was watching closely, all through those days of terror, because here was a chance that came along...well, never, for most of them.

Gotham seems to have more than its fair share of mental patients, but there are none to compare to The Joker. And for a girl from a small town, for a girl who had spent crushing, draining, thankless years amongst the hospitals and prisons and institutions and asylums, it was a hand up out of the pit.

It would mean book deals, articles, seminars, respect- something hard to come by, in this field, when you were blonde, young and female- and it would mean money. The great and common motivation.

But not his. Hadn't she heard that he had burned a fortune, more than enough money to seize the Mob, hell, the whole city, by the throat? And for what? To prove a point?

It was insane.

And yet..._he_ didn't seem insane at all.

Of course, there are words that describe parts of him: psychopathic, sociopathic, sadistic.

Delusions of grandeur- and yet-Harleen's never met a man who didn't have delusions of grandeur. And are they delusions, when every man, woman and child in Gotham knows his name?

No matter how you try to define him, he slips away, changes his skin, right before her. He talks to her with such gravity, such understanding.

When he looks at her, she feels nauseous, so afraid. Her stomach drops and her fingers shake and she blushes and yet, and yet she feels so..._bold_ with him. He is from a much larger world than she has ever imagined. He knows so many things.

And he doesn't think he's sick. It's not uncommon, but when he tells her that medication won't, can't fix what he is, (and he seems pleased by it), she believes him.

She has told him, more than once, to keep an open mind about his treatment.

But he just laughed- my God, that _laugh_-quirked a brow, leaned forward-like it was a secret- and said, "Ya know the trouble with keeping an open mind, Har-ley? Someone will always insist on coming along and..._dropping_ things into it."

How can he get to her so quickly? When he speaks, she's so fascinated that she forgets to take notes. She takes the recordings of their sessions to her office and listens to them over and over again. He controls their sessions, really, she can't delude herself into thinking that these sessions are the same as the others she conducts. That he is just another patient.

She doesn't want to admit it-_obssessed, you're obsessed_- but that word hangs in her head, especially late at night.

She doesn't sleep well any more, in her tiny apartment. And she notices things like- _I have no pictures on my walls-my bed's covered in case notes-my God, I have no life, I have no life outside these papers, this career_-it's funny because she's never really noticed, cared, before.

Before him.

* * *

She looks at the tape.

_And now you've betrayed him._

She looks at her reflection, tries to see that girl-where is that girl, who was so enthusiastic about helping people-but her blue eyes are wide, and empty, staring back out of the mirror.

_Judas_.

She's done her deal with the devil- no worse-with a Dick- and he's going to want the tape.

Once he has it-

He doesn't even have it yet and already-

If she gives it to him-

There will be money, yes, and respect and probably articles and book deals and lots of lovely things to clutter up her bare apartment-but-

What about _him_?

The door squeals on its hinges behind her and Richard is framed in the door. His strong jaw looks weak, quivering under the harsh lights. His voice echoes over the tiles.

"Have you got it?"

* * *

Some-thing's wrong.

Something's wrong something's wrong

something's wrong

some-thing'swrongwrongwrong_wrong_

_Beep._

_

* * *

_

They've done something-what have they done-why can't I-

_Beep._

_

* * *

_

Calm

Down.

What's the last thing that-oh.

Harleeeee-n.

Harleen and her little ex-peri-ment.

She-and the tape-

Oh.

_Oh._

_Beep._

_

* * *

Shush._

S-hush.

Because everytime...

I get...

Excited...

They kick in.

Okay...

Okayyyy...

Gotta get out.

They've wised up somehow (you know how)

That-tape-and-they-drugged-me-

_Nobody._

Drugs.

Me.

-and-now-its

Thought I had my little Harls all figured out.

Hee-heh-heh.

Oooohhh

That

_Bitch_.

_Beep_.

* * *

Harleen leans over his bed, watches sadly as his eyelids twitch.

Whatever he's dreaming of, it makes him frown, makes the scar tissue bunch and twist in grotesque ways. She wonders if he realises what has happened.

She wonders if he knows that it was her.

But Jeremiah's word is still law and while he's in charge, he's quite content to let this particular patient rot in a drugged sleep. It's quite an elegant solution for all involved really.

(She has to gulp down the nausea. This is not humane at all.)

Every time the patient's heart rate spikes over the approved resting rate, or his brain activity become more complex than what is considered necessary for basic function, the drug is administered straight into the vein.

(They have to feed him by IV now, like he's a vegetable. It makes her _sick_-)

If he's never fully conscious, then he's never a danger to himself or to others. That's the bottom line.

(My _god_)

She strokes his hair, because he can't stop her.

"I'm so sorry." She breathes, quietly so that the surveillance microphones won't pick it up.

She remembers his wild, joyful laughter in their last session, the drug singing in his veins, making him speak so quickly that the words knotted themselves up as they came out. Jumbled sentences about escapes and French and purple and knives and smiles and Batman-always Batman-and how stupid they all were, thinking that a straitjacket and a padded cell could hold him.

That she could cure him.

That stings, a little, even now.

Nobody wants to try any more. Nobody wants to bother about him any more. He'll gather dust, here, in this tiny private room, tied to his bed, not even realising what he's missing.

And it's her fault.

"I'm so _so_ sorry."

She passes two guards, one either side of the infirmary door, on her way out.

She doesn't look back.

She can't.

* * *

Someone is there...

...

whispering

...

...

...

...

...

who is it

was it

...

...

...

...

I can't think-

Properly

...

...

...

...

...

...

...

Don't...

leave

...

...

tell

me

why

I

Can't

_Beep._

* * *

Every few days she stops by, strokes his hair, watches his dreaming face.

He doesn't look peaceful.

She can feel his ribs, now, count them even, her fingers tripping over each bone through his shirt.

The nurses say that he's stable, fine, fine, all fine they say, but they don't care.

Sometimes she can't come by at all, although she does try. But with all these new patients she's been assigned...

It's too painful, looking at him waste away so slowly, and knowing somewhere deep down, that maybe it could have been different. It's a pain like a knife-thrust, so deep in her gut, and it comes when she watches Richard smile in the hallways as they pass, when Jeremiah sits back in his chair with a satisfied sigh at the end of their meetings.

Sometimes it comes when she's sitting at home, listening to the television bounce off the walls. Meaningless noises. Bouncing off all her pretty new things.

Even when he wakes up, the nurses say, he doesn't do anything. Just stares, normally, at the ceiling. Blinks so slowly that they can count seconds in between. He doesn't speak to them, doesn't seem to realise they are there.

And that means he's off in his head somewhere-plotting, planning, surviving?

Or is there nothing?

If she was to speak to him now, call his name, would her voice just bounce off the walls?

When dogs go rabid they get put down. But humans don't get that same sort of detatched practicality. They must live on.

Suffering.

And somewhere inside, she knows he is.

* * *

**Next Chapter: ?**

I've been getting a lot of hits, but no comments.

Would love to hear from some people.

_**Taluliaka.**_


	5. A Bloody Little Christmas

**Gods of Chaos**

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* * *

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****

Disclaimer: _See Chapter 1._

**Chapter 5 – A Bloody Little Christmas**

**

* * *

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**

* * *

**

...

...

...

...

...

"_Have yourself a merry little Christmas_..."

...

...

...

"_Make the Yule-tide gay_..."

...

...

...

...

"_From now on our troubles will be miles away._.."

...

...

...

Speak for yourself, _Frank-uh_.

I'm in trouble up to my eye-balls right now.

Someone

Is sneaking around

And I don't wanna end

My per-for-_mance_

If it's all for...a...nurse.

Hmmmm.

Who is it a-stalkin' round after hours in the vegetable patch?

Who is it

Who is it

Who. Is. It?

There are shadows on the ceiling, creeping just past my eye's reach

(it could be just a trick)

But I've been watching this same patch of cement for...

Far.

Too.

Long.

(they're gonna pay for that)

(ho yes _they will_)

And I know the difference between...nothing

And something.

(like other people, especially professional types- should know the difference between...

a vegetable and someone

dressed up as a vegetable)

Heh.

Something and No-thing.

Annnd. There's someone here.

Keep your breathing deep.

Don't get

EXCITED.

Adaptability. That's the difference between me and some, uh, thug on the street. Change your stripes, that's how I do it.

Ya learn to like changing your stripes eventually.

And boy

Have I had..._experience_.

* * *

Oooh.

Here they come.

Huh.

...

...

...

How

Disappointing.

I was hoping for: some-nurse-with-a-grudge-or-a-doctor-who's-not-getting-paid-enough-or-my-little-_harlequin_-gearing-herself-up-for-a-mercy-killing...

Hoping.

But I saw him in the cards...from the beginning.

Pre-dic-ta-ble.

...

...

"_Here we are as in olden days..._"

...

...

Well, gosh, I've never murdered to a Sinatra song before...

Sorry.

Wait.

_Been _murdered.

I'm glad they forgot to turn it off once all the visitors left.

_Gllll-aaa-duh._

Nothing like old Blue Eyes himself to get down n' dirty to.

...

...

"_Happy golden days of yore..._"

...

...

Well, well someone never attended Assassination 101.

I can hear your breathing a mile away.

Sharp gasps-are ya nervous?

Want me to sing ya a Christmas carol to stop the shakes?

And the light's glancing off your ring there-genius-gotta take all that shiny jewellery off if you don't wanna be seen.

...

"_Faithful friends who are dear to us..._"

...

Slow, deep breaths.

Am I asleep?

Really, though?

Why doncha check.

Lean closer...

A little closer...

That's

It.

...

"_Gather near to us once more_..."

...

Boo.

Newbie yells, recoils backwards, isn't expecting my eyes to switch so suddenly to his, and his blade-brought-a-_knife_-

_Man after my own Heart_

-they-might-be-silent-genius-but-they-sing-to-me-like-no-other-

his blade swings upwards, straight through one of my restraints,

(I do time things well-make no mis-_take_ about it)

And I drag that poison valve straight outta my arm.

* * *

...

"_Through the years we all will be together_..."

...

He comes back immediately (learns from his mistakes-now there's a point in his favour) with a wild overarm slash (someone's been watchin' too much _American Psycho-ooo_) driving to kill.

The blade snags on flesh and material, my free arm thrown up to take the hit- and the result is: not much damage at all,

now he's off balance, caught against the bedrail.

Which gives me time

(seconds seconds)

To tear the buckle from my stomach

(good _god_ I'm hungry)

Don't have time for the other wrist but I bring the metal restraint ring down onto his knuckles –bang- and he screams

Like a little kid

And drops the knife.

...

"_If the fates allow..."_

_..._

The knife skitters under the bed, kicked by Newbie's clumsy feet, and he throws caution to the winds-slams himself under there like a cockroach-while I fumble with the restraints

(who the hell invented these anyway)

And when he claws up the side of my mattress-his eyes popping with fear-like two marbles in the gloom-I slam my free leg into them-forcing him back again

(can't afford to look at these while I undo 'em-where the hell is the end of it)

He breaks into a stumbling run- he's gonna pin me like a bug on a card-even he can't miss from this distance-

...

"_Hang a shining star upon the highest bough_..."

...

Flings himself bodily into a dive-

(aha-other leg)

As I throw myself over the other railing-twisting my still-imprisoned wrist kinda upside down in the process-but hey

Ta-da!

Disappearing clown act.

Gets 'em every time.

I can't help giggling at his disbelieving expression, and with a few quick tugs-

_I'm free_.

...

"_And have yourself a merry little Christmas now..."_

_..._

_

* * *

_Newbie freezes.

Advantage: Me.

And I am good at taking advantage.

(just watch me)

One step

(_watch_ me)

Two step

(look at me _go_)

Three step.

Me forward: him backwards. Like a chess board.

Funny thing is, he's the one. With the knife.

That's comedy for ya. When you've got a legend...that precedes you...you can pretty much guaran-tee everyone's gonna clear the floor.

With every step

(four step five step)

I become less that drugged, restrained, help-lesss patient

And I become more

(six step seven step)

Me.

We close in on the wall, Newbie scuffing back with his shoes. He _knows_ the wall's there.

He knows his back is to it.

His right heel hits cement, and with a scream he lunges for me- all animal in this moment- he's ready to kill me and anyone else-these- _people_

And their _rules_-

One hand to the chest, the other up to his wrist. A soft shove, a sharp twist- and he's just a frightened

Stupid

Kid

Up against a killer.

I lean my weight into him, push him flush to the wall- I'm taller-but I make an effort-

To look into his eyes. (that's the best part)

Put the blade to his throat.

"Ah-ah-ah- no more of that."

Soft voice, nice voice, makes his lip quiver. Stupid stupid _kid_.

"Who sent ya, Newbie?"

His eyes flick left-right left-right.

"Wh-what?"

"You expect me to _believe_ that you thought up that orderly dis-guise-ah?"

His mouth moves but nothing comes out.

Of course not.

"You're not the brains of this opera-tion, are ya, Newbie?"

"I...I.."

"Ah, shush, shush, shaaa-ush."

He's just an insect, in the sandpit of _gods_.

"Do ya remember, Newbie...that night where you and Fred and Swanson paid me a visit?"

I tip my voice up hiiighhh, crook my eyes up to the left. Helps the memory, the left side.

"Because...because I _remember_."

I slam my weight into his stomach, and he chokes.

"You..."

I search out his eyes, spinning in his head.

"Hey, look at me...now you were wearing a ring, weren't ya?"

He doesn't seem able to reply (awww) so I nod his head up and down

For him.

"Yes? _Y-eeeesss_."

I do an exaggerated double-take. Why there it is, on that hand I'm holding!

Shock! Suprise!

"Ooh! Why, there it is!"

Right there! On his hand!

"I- hee-ha_haHA_- I found it, Newbie!"

I'm very precise, when I want to be, and it's with a returning pleasure (all up and down) that I neatly snick off his fourth finger, complete with ring. I don't really know why he's screaming-why is he _screaming_-unless it's in appreciation of my talents.

"Shoulda been a doctor, right?"

I raise an eyebrow, show him his own finger, still spurting blood.

His eyes roll up- about to faint-now, none of that.

"Hey. Hey..."

I shake his shoulders, his eyes do a great lazy circle back to rest on me-

"_WHO. SENT. YOU?_"

He jerks, swallows a sob, focuses on the finger I'm waving back and forth under his nose.

"It was...it was...I dunno man I just follow orders- I just follow orders-shit man-_shit_!"

Sigh.

I study the ring- plain, heavy-engraved with a tiny snake.

"Whooo-se orders?"

I flick the knife back to his throat, cut in just a little.

"He's called...they call him..."

"Come on come on come on – spit it _out_."

"C..Copperhead."

Hmm.

"Kuh-kuh-Copperhead, huh?"

He nods wildly.

I lean back, and he sucks in a breath.

This is gonna take some thinking about.

This Co-pp-_errrr_ head (whoever the hell he is) –he could be a real...

Pain.

Or, he could be fun.

Fifty-fifty.

Damn. The one time ol' Ha-rrrvey's coin would be useful.

Heh-hee-heh.

Realise that I've been staring into nothing (how rude of me) and I turn back to Newbie.

I point his finger at him.

"Now, Newbie..."

He's thinking, _maybe the worst is over_. He's thinking, _maybe I get to keep the rest of my body parts_.

He's getting _cocky_.

"Yeah?"

"I'm gonna need ya car keys."

I drive my knife in, hard, punch straight through the muscle into the chest cavity.

Drag it up between the ribs-can feel 'em against the blade- and lift his keys from his jacket pocket.

And he's screaming-foaming-battering at me-until the blood gurgles in his throat and he slumps against the wall.

I keep his gaze to the end.

He's left a broad red streak on the floor-all bubbly and irregular at the edges.

I contemplate a second-

it sure brightens up the place-

realise I've dropped the finger.

I work off the ring- stare at the snake for a minute- then slip it into my pocket.

Draw a smiley face on the wall in Newbie's blood.

The first person in tomorrow will get a good laugh.

Call me a softy- but _it is_ the giving season.

"Whoo-ha-ha-haaaa...ha-ha-_HAHA-HAAA_!"

* * *

**Author's Notes: **Copperhead is a villain that appeared in 'The Brave and the Bold' comic series. Apparently he wore a snake suit and liked to strangle people with the tail of it. But he is quite easily Nolan-ified, unlike many villains I found, like Dr. No-Face, who had no face...and Mr Camera, the camera-headed villain. Heh. I could have done someone like Deadshot or Black Mask but they are currently out there in other fictions, and there are enough villains to go around.

Frank Sinatra did do a version of 'Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas'. I listened to it about twenty times while writing this chapter, trying to imagine two people fighting to it. It made me laugh. : )

Oh, and I forgot to cite something from the last chapter. "The problem with keeping an open mind is that people will insist on coming along and dropping things into it" is from Terry Pratchett.

**Thank you to my reviewers, Viick's the Perv One, MJ Vanna and the beautiful and talented Slightly.**

**Next Chapter:** The Joker hits the town to do his Christmas shopping. (Or possibly less fun things like dealing with going cold turkey on his meds.)

Drop me a line and tell me what you think,

_**Taluliaka.**_


	6. Breakfast at Possum's

**Gods of Chaos**

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**Disclaimer:** _See Chapter 1._

**Chapter 6: Breakfast at Possum's**

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Playing hide and seek with Night Nurse Holly.

She knows something's up. (She _knows._)

Newbie wasn't exactly...silent. He's bribed the guards for the night, so they're ab-sent

(or did he? I don't remember...may-be they called off the Uglies looong before Newbie grew the balls to come after me)

(maybe they were never there in the first place).

Hmm.

So. Creeping after Holly, she's moving oh-so-slowly between the beds. Her fingers are spread at her sides, her footsteps are whisper-soft

-I bet her eyes _are doe-soft_-

She's being hunted so well she doesn't even realise it yet.

Not consciously.

It's her body that's saying; _run run run from that thing in the shadows_.

But she won't-uh. Logic over instinct, that's modern man's problem.

She's wearing a white coat, but in the moonlight it's all burnished silver. Her eyes are flashing, diamond-quick, over the white-washed room.

And me, in the shadows. Shivering. (I am. And not...unfortunate-lee as much from, ah, _anticipation _as from other-less-fun-things) (it's so _hot _in here)

Knife slipping through my fingers, so I keep twirling-keep it locked there-whirling in its own little circle-can you hear it, Doe-eyes? Can you hear...Me?

I'm coming for ya.

My private suite's down the end of the hall- she's expecting me to come from the other end-if she's expecting anyone at all.

(_you're being follow-ed by a moonshadow_

_moonshadow_

_moon_SHADOW)

I have to choke down my humming (it is a catchy song)

(_da da da duh da da daaaa_)

Blade slips between my fingers again. My palms are slippery with sweat. (And my heart is...racing.)

Next time I have a knife fight with someone...I'm having a burger first.

Ooh...maybe Nursie has some sweeties in her pockets (yum) (still. So. _hungreee_)

Hee-hee-h-okay.

I step out smoothly, right behind her, ghost her footsteps. The hairs on her arms are standing up straight (that's how bright the moon is tonight). My shadow stretches over hers.

She tenses, every muscle ready for that spring away- but I'm too quick.

One hand over her mouth-the other-

I stab her to _the heart-_

_Her eyes wide-_

She lets out a tiny gasp as the blade goes in-kinda the sound I think a deer would make, had I stab-bed it in the back.

She never sees me, just my shadow. It swallows her up as she falls.

Bye-bye Holly.

* * *

One of the good things about Ark-ham Asylum is how...close it is to city life.

It makes me laugh to think that way back when, one of Jerry's ancestors decided that he would break that nasty old stereo-type about asylums being derelict old houses up on hills-where it always rains-ha-and instead opted for: The Narrows.

Nice.

Once ya make it out, it's only a couple of steps and you can be home in time for dinner.

See, there was a reason why asylums were so isolated.

It's easier to catch some-one when they're running over _hill _and down _dale_ trying to reach someplace civilized, then to comb through a whole city-eee.

Mm-hmm.

I don't need to walk though.

I've got Newbie's car (wasn't hard to find, really) (too much gang pride, youth these days.)

Hee-heh-HEE.

Took me nearly five whole minutes to scratch off the snake sticker across the back windshield. Huge, loopy, black-and-red thing, all fangs and yellow eyes. (That's uh...not a copperhead) (just letting ya know) (_Newbie_).

Ah well.

He'll know for next time.

One flash of Newbie's new shiny laminate, ('James Dean'? Who ya foolin' kid? HA) and I'm out and speeding over shiny black tarmac.

It's a bit difficult to concentrate on the road (back on the Batman's streets) (free and out) (out and _free_)

But it doesn't really matter

(well it _does_)

But um...not for the car, per se.

* * *

See if there's one thing I know- it's that my old friend the Commissioner will still have a phone line direct to the Bat-

And the first thing that will happen once everyone realises I've slipped the coop (Web? Net?) (apart from general panic and flailing and woe is us-whining) Gordon's gonna pick up his special Bat-cell and beam that message straight through.

And when

The BAT. MAN.

Gets that message-

Before He jumps into his new Bat-mobile, or Bat-bike, or gold-plated Bat-ski-He's gonna think: _Where would he go?_

_Where would I go?_

I have a car. I could go...oh...anywhere.

Right out of Goth-am.

That's what the po-lice will think. Want to think. Please.

Please please let the mean nasty Joker-man go bother some other city...

But I like this city.

Because Bat-face is here.

Annnd because our minds work

Much more similarly

Then He'd like to _admit_-

He knows I'm not going to leave. (oh no no not LEAVE)

Why would I leave?

BUT.

There's one thing...that the Bat...doesn't know.

We all have our secrets.

He thinks I don't have any friends. (Because I'm a freak, and _freakssss _don't have friends) (Or girlfriends, right Bats? Girl-friends get blown up.)

Naaw.

Sad.

But he's not reckoning on..._Family_.

So he's gonna find the car of course (the great detective that he is)

But he won't find

Me

Until I'm good

And

Ready.

(_can' t go to a party without my cost-ume-ah_)

Right?

* * *

Possum.

I think about _Possum_.

Sure he's a little _crazy, _but I've got him hooked.

See, way back when I was rising (like a new star) on the horizon, I found Possum.

Fresh outta Arkham, stumbling around the streets in clothes too big for him.

(Tugs at the heartstrings)

He has delusions. Sees things that just ain't there.

But I was. And I _saw_-him.

(He's tanned, broad-shouldered. He's shorter, wider than me, but not by much. His hair is only wavy, it's a darker blonde, but not by much. His eyes are lighter, but not. By. _Much_.)

He could be my _twin_.

I took him into my crew, gave him a clown mask, I treated him _nice._ Gave him a good cut of the bank jobs. Set him up with a nice little apartment.

Treated him like a _brother,_ I did.

(Batman can't imagine me outta the Narrows. Walking 'round like a normal person? On the streets? Makes his Bat-teeth _grind_, I imagine-)

See, Possum lives in a nice suburb. Sure, it's in the city, but in the fashionable end. Near the theatres, and the fancy clubs, where all the _celebrities_ come out to play.

He's straight.

Straight as I could make him.

And he won't turn his brother out into the cold, on _Christmas_. Oh no he won't.

Not much snow has fallen in Goth-am proper, so I move quickly along the streets, avoiding the streetlamps (orange catches the eye, here, anywhere actually) (stupid colour for a jumpsuit) and soon I'm at his doorstep.

I knock four times. Light, rappy, let-me-in-little-brother-let-me-_in_

Find myself leaning against the wall, straighten up.

I'll be just in time

for break-_fast._

_

* * *

_

**Author's Notes:** The sedative withdrawal symptoms I describe (and will describe) are all accurate. Going cold turkey on your sleepy meds will lead to increased heart rate, elevated blood pressure, increased body temperature, sweating, shaky hands, inability to sleep, nausea, anxiety and restlessness.

I imagine Possum as physically resembling Heath Ledger as he was when he was in the film 'Ten Things I Hate About You.'

The song Joker is thinking about as he stalks Holly is 'Moonshadow' by Cat Stephens. What he starts humming a few lines later is part of the verse 'Oh if I ever lose my (random body part)...' Yeah. It's actually kind of a creepy song.

Thanks go to **Viick's **and **Slightly** for their reviews. In other weird news: I don't know whether others have this problem, but whenever I write chapters for this story I either have to be wearing some form of purple clothing or consuming purple things (for example, today, a purple lollipop). I'm also currently playing with a Stanley knife which someone has randomly left in our kitchen. (Possibly my brother's but who knows).

Next chapter will be longer. But right now my laptop's burning a hole through my leg, I have to go to work soon, and I need to eat dinner. So post it I shall.

**Next Chapter: **Possum's brother comes home for Christmas. What to do?

Any comments well received,

_**Taluliaka.**_


	7. Do You See What I See?

**Gods of Chaos**

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**Disclaimer: **_See Chapter 1._

**Chapter 7: Do You See What I See?**

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Possum is not at all surprised when he swings the door open, and finds The Joker on the other side. The television is still blaring behind him about the Arkham break, the oil-smooth tones of the reporter strained, tinny, fear sliding up and down the notes of his voice.

He's wearing a violently orange jumpsuit, with a vivid splash of red across the front, and Possum feels a faint bloom of curiosity as to how he managed to make his way here, avoiding the splashes of streetlights and the pale rays of dawn, without someone noticing. His hands are shoved in his pockets, his legs braced far apart, and his head is tipped forward. His eyes are rimmed with purple smudges.

The Joker's eyes flick upwards, and he remembers with a sick jolt that he's dyed his hair black, advice whispered in his ear by a twitchy Joey, when the Joker gang was separating, how it would be suicidal to broadcast any connections to the Boss now he's in the loony bin. At first, he thinks Joey's jealous, but afterwards, every eye seems to glare at him, faces turning in the streets, mouths muttering to each other, and finally he flees from the crowds, locks his bathroom door, and sticks his head under the faucet. Will he consider it a betrayal?

The Joker rocks back on his heels, shakes back his tangled hair, bares his teeth.

"_Hi._"

Silently, he stands aside, lets The Joker lope into the apartment. He locks the door carefully behind them. He makes the very conscious decision not to look outside, see if anyone's _watching_. Laura will be proud.

* * *

He turns to see The Joker stalking around the kitchen, taking darting swift glances around. He pauses, drags a finger over the handles of Possum's kitchen knives. Possum notices his hands are shaking, then double-takes. It's strange to see those long pale fingers without their biting leather gloves. He selects a knife, draws it out so that the kitchen lights play over the blade, and lets it drop back into its wooden holder with a thunk.

"How are ya enjoying living the high life, Poss-um?"

He draws the knife again, lets it go.

_Thunk_.

"In _my_ apartment? With _my_ money?"

Possum realises he's twisting his jumper with such force that it's unravelling. He releases it with an effort.

The Joker twists his neck backwards, over his shoulder, until one eye meets Possum's. He's grinning.

_Thunk._

Possum finds himself reverting back to that stilted sign language he used to use in the gangs. He taps a finger at the corner of his right eye.

**(Good.)**

"Ya don't...need to supp-lah-ment the income somehow?"

_Thunk._

Confused, he quickly shakes his head. The Joker has been very generous to him.

"Then...what..."

He turns around, holding up a small yellow container,

"May I ask...are _these_?"

That's his medication. The pills that Laura gives to him. They're the ones that make him better.

"You..ah...ain't selling lollies to the kiddies are ya?"

The Joker shakes his hand, making the pills rattle wildly. He tips his head to the side quizzically. He's sweating under the bright lights, though whether it's exertion from his escape or something else, Possum can't tell.

Possum doesn't have a sign for medication. He can only make the one for drugs, and then quickly tap the side of his head.

**(Drugs.)**

**(Head drugs.)**

The Joker's mouth twists down into a frown. He lowers his eyebrows, hunches his shoulders, exaggerating confusion.

Possum's fingers tremble. He repeats the signs jerkily, willing The Joker to understand. He doesn't deal drugs. He doesn't_. Laura_ gave them to him.

"Someone...gave them to ya? Hmm? Is that it?"

He nods.

The Joker straightens out suddenly, like a steel spring uncoiling. His tongue darts out to touch a scar.

"Well, then, maybe I'd better look after them. Can't have..uh..some _crazy_ giving my little bro drugs-ah now. Can. We?"

He drops the medication into his pants pocket, gives it a reassuring pat. His eyes don't waver from Possum's.

_But...but I need those pills. Laura said..._But he keeps his treacherous hands still. He knows this is a test. The Joker likes to test people. After a long moment, The Joker looks away, apparently satisfied.

He strolls out of the kitchen and down the hall towards the single bedroom. Possum's bedroom. Possum watches him go, rooted to the spot. A door slams, and he allows himself to breathe out slowly, forces himself to relax. He sits down on a bar stool at the kitchen counter, counts his heartbeats. He wills them to slow down.

It takes a long time.

* * *

He counts twenty five minutes on the clock, sitting on the couch, diving his attention between the news reports, the hands on his clock, and the closed bedroom door. But he still jumps when the door crashes open, bouncing off the wall. The Joker looks even worse than he did when he arrived. The bruises under his eyes seem even darker, his hair is wet with perspiration, and his mouth is working in annoyance as he walks over. He holds out a folded piece of note paper, taken, Possum realises, from the day planner Laura makes him keep.

"I need you...to get me some _stuff_."

Fine tremors run through the paper as he holds it out.

Slowly, Possum takes it, pretending not to notice.

The Joker wavers for a few seconds, looking almost impossibly tired, before he folds himself onto the couch and stares blankly at the television.

Possum carefully lifts The Joker's note, reads a few lines and then bounces up from his seat. It's a shopping list. He has to _go now_.

The Joker's mouth twists into a smirk.

"_Good-uh boy_."

Possum stares at the scars, and then away again, horrified at himself.

He snags a jacket, his wallet, and his keys, and closes the apartment door as gently as possible on The Joker's watchful stare.

* * *

In the car, Possum can't help remembering.

He clutches the wheel tightly, tries to ignore the way the road rises and falls at the edges, like he's driving on water. He hasn't seen things like this for months.

He remembers The Joker, in their hideout, training the Chechen's dogs. Huge brutes, drooling and hulking, growling and scrapping with each other across the faded carpets.

The Joker giggling, totally unafraid, "Good boy," he coos as he throws them scraps of meat.

"Ah-ha-ha-hee, good _boy_!"

The men, uneasily throwing glances over their shoulders at their boss, pushing their tables into corners where they sit smoking, playing cards, or playing pool and drinking. Their hideout then was an old bar, shut to the public, whose owner owed The Joker a few favours.

The moment where The Joker sat up straight, his purple coat bunching around him. (Sometimes Possum thought he saw it move, bulging and shifting on its own, wondered what The Joker really kept in his pockets.) The moment where The Joker sat up, considering his men, his eyes falling on Possum, in the centre with Joey and some other guys. How he glanced down at one of the Rottweilers, and growled, "_Go get 'em_," and the entire pack lunged across the floor straight at him.

He remembers the sucker punch of fear to his gut, how he scrambled behind the heavy table, trying to shield himself from the onslaught of fangs and black, furred muscle. Joey yelling in fright, falling off his chair, the others swearing, struggling to reach their weapons.

He remembers the piercing whistle that bit the air, as the pack leapt on them. How the dog nearest him turned in midair, turning his attack into a leaping retreat, the pack racing across the floor back to their master, whining with eagerness. The Joker casually throwing them some more hunks of meat, his trademark laughter burnt down to strangled wheezes of amusement at his men's terror. "_Goooood_ boys-uh," he sing-songs to the dogs, before pointing them at another group of men, half-standing from their chairs, frozen in shock.

He remembers when The Joker, finally, pointed out Stork to his dogs, and gave them the command. Blind Stork, hanging on at the fringes of the gang, punished for a failed attack on their leader, kept around for the Boss's amusement. And as a lesson. Stork, unsure what was happening, scarred eye sockets turning left and right, his hands splayed on the wall behind him, waiting for the whistle that never came.

The dogs tearing Stork apart, his agonised screams, The Joker's wild laughter. The blood pooling on the carpet. Joey telling Possum to turn away, like the other men, and close their ears to it.

Possum feels sick, still, when he thinks about that night. He has to pull the car over, try not to vomit, swallowing thickly, pushing the acid back down. Loses The Joker's list, panics and scrabbles around until he finds it under his seat.

The road bucks underneath him as he turns back onto the streets.

* * *

When he enters the grocery store, its bright aisles and quiet humming calms him down. Possum pushes that night firmly to the back of his mind, and scans The Joker's list. He picks up a plastic basket and heads off, losing himself in the calming monotony of food shopping. The aisles are all decorated for the Christmas season, and he has fun looking at all the different kinds of Christmas lollies they're selling. Laura convinced him to buy a small plastic Christmas tree the last time they went shopping and he likes the way it cheerfully blinks at him in the evenings.

Possum likes Christmas in general. Everyone seems nicer at Christmas time.

He grabs a few blocks of dark chocolate, and every sort of purple candy he can lay his hands on. He also picks up a bag of rainbow sour straps, which are his favourites, and moves out of the confectionary aisle in search of hair dye.

After he's looked through the whole selection, he begins to feel panicky. There is no green hair dye to be found. Anywhere.

There has to be some.

There _has_ to be.

In the end, he runs to the register. He can't tell them what he's after, but he's in luck, because _she's_ there.

_She_ is a young woman, as silent as he is, and he likes her to serve him, if only because she reminds him of himself. She can't be older than twenty, and yet her eyes are distant, old eyes in a young face. She has a huge, disfiguring scar that zigzags down the side of her face, narrowly missing an eye, before it plunges down her neck and disappears beneath her collared work shirt. The scar is fresh, not more than a few years old, and Possum thinks she got it during Fear Night. It looks like the work of a knife. She also has the look of what The Joker likes to call 'Fear zombies', of someone who has lived through something they never expected to survive, something awful. In between customers, her eyes dim completely, and she retreats into her own head. She always smiles when she sees Possum, however, and he likes to think it's more than just gratitude that he can't comment on her scar, as all her other customers do.

Anyway, when he skids to a halt in front of her, she looks up right away, brow furrowed in concern. He shows her the note, pointing frantically at the offending item in The Joker's scrawled handwriting. She hesitates for a moment, scanning the list, and then beckons him to follow her. She heads away from the health and beauty aisle, and turns down one of the very last ones. It contains items like paper plates and party hats and...green dye apparently, because she turns and hands him a packet. His knees nearly give out in gratitude.

He smiles, mouths a 'thank you' and she smiles softly at him in return before drifting away. It's a product for kids, differently coloured hair dye for parties, but he's sure The Joker won't care so long as it's green, so he quickly scoops up the entire stock of green dye, about ten packets, and tips them all into the basket.

Calmer now, he takes his time wandering the aisles, collecting random items, some which he needs, like toilet paper and shampoo and shaving cream and bread and milk, and some which The Joker needs, like a block for sharpening blades and duct tape and a twenty-four pack of water bottles and steak and greasepaint and some cheap cell phones.

(The store stocks everything except the greasepaint, but Possum knows about the art and crafts place a few blocks over, and he's not overly concerned.)

Finally, Possum picks up a roast chicken from the deli and heads for the registers. He can't help himself, he hasn't had breakfast this morning, and the smell as they come out of the oven makes his mouth water.

He dumps his items onto _her _register and she puts them through with a faint smile. She looks him in the eye as she hands over his receipt, and Possum looks back, ignoring the scar. He's seen worse, after all.

By the time he's loaded everything into the car, the sun is fully up, making the snow glitter where it is heaped on the sidewalks. The air is crisp and sharp, and he tunes the radio to a station which is playing carols. He feels...happy.

* * *

He stops at the crafts store, picks up red, white and black greasepaint, and then yellow and green. He knows after all that the owner will be able to connect the little tubes to his brother's warpaint, if he doesn't buy a few random colours as well. Possum's proud that he's figured that out, and he can't help but grin at the little Asian man who bags his purchases, oblivious as to their intended purpose.

Juggling all his different bags, Possum enters his apartment again. He is half-hoping to find The Joker still on the couch, and the television is still burbling away, brightly coloured advertisements flashing over the screen, but his brother is gone.

Possum frowns, dumps the bags on the kitchen counter, takes a few tentative steps down the hall. Amazed at his own daring, he opens his bedroom door a crack, peeks through. His covers have all been ripped off and twisted around themselves, but there is definitely a figure underneath them, and the sheets rise and fall with easy regularity.

He shuts the door in silence, heads back to the kitchen, starts putting things away, humming along to a song on the television in the background.

He remembers, with faint surprise, that Laura is supposed to come and visit him today. Possum is glad, though, once he realises that she can meet his older brother.

She's always been curious about his family.

* * *

**Author's Notes: **The title of this chapter is referring to both the creepy Christmas carol they used in that movie 'The Gremlins', where a Christmas tree attacks this woman while she's trapped in her house, and also to Possum and how he views the Joker.

I'm, ah, pretty sure everyone knows that a 'possum' is a furry marsupial native to Australia, but there it is, just in case.

I'm not entirely sure whether America has a grocery store equivalent to the one I had Possum go to, but I'm sure there's something similar. I based the store I describe on Coles, an Australian supermarket chain.

Thanks go to **Slightly** and **Viick's** who are awesome, and also to those people who put my story on alert. Hope you enjoyed this chapter. It had a decidedly fluffy feel, which surprised me, but I went with it.

**Next Chapter:** Laura, meet The Joker. Joker, meet Laura. Turkey, anyone?

I'd say to have a Merry Christmas, but I'm sure two or three more chapters will be put up before then,

_**Taluliaka.**_


	8. Enter Laura

**Gods of Chaos**

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****Disclaimer:** _See Chapter 1._

**Chapter 8: Enter Laura**

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Here's the thing about sleep:

It's

Boring.

Sure ya can _dream_...but most of the time what ya remember is all fractured, split up, doesn't make any sense

-like purple leaves fluttering in a purple sky and blood on the pavement-

-like moonlight that hurts and Spanish muttered low, like a badly tuned radio-

-like a girl driving a needle into her eye and cats screaming and the heavy blunt shock of a bullet in the throat and Batman fading into a room stripy with wallpaper, sucked dry and dusty-

I don't like them.

Dreams.

Sleep, luckily, is something I can do without.

I can go nearly a week- done it a few times-sometimes I'm just too _busy_ to sleep.

But when I want to...

And I _Can't_ (I'm in the position, face down in a pillow, sheets tangling up my legs)

Come on come _on comeoncomeoncomeon_

Sleep.

Get sleepy!

...

...

...

Nope.

No dice.

The one time I actually want to sleep...

What's that?

Okay. Either Possum's back from his little shopping spree...

Or the most inept burglar ever has just arrived.

Jingle of keys.

...

Ah well. Maintain the fantasy. Burglars have keys sometimes. My knife's still in my pocket, keeping Possum's pills company-I have to fight the sheets to get my fingers down there (what is this a bed or a death trap)-but just when I touch that chill steel-

_Creak._

I nearly break my nose slamming it back into the pillows.

Door opens.

A moment's considering silence-I breathe low and deep-and then the door clicks shut again.

* * *

My my, someone's grown a pair since I arrived this morning.

I wonder what else he did on that little ex-cur-sion-

How much do ya really know about him huh...people are springy little things...when he saw me this morning...I took his pills, he's gotta be feeling _better_...how do ya know he ain't on someone else's paycheck now, hmm...he was devoted, a loy-al little doggie...and we all know how loyal dogs are when they're hungry...

My head hurts.

You shoulda checked up on him before coming-never woulda slipped up like this before-something's wrecked up there in your head-used to be _sharper_-used to be-

_SNAP_-Arrghhhoo-hhaaa-ooh-OOH.

ooohHOOhoooooho.

That thrill goes right to my core (HELLO) and I'm calm all over again. That familiar cold slick feel of pain-still had my fingers there on Newbie's ex-knife-and I've pulled the-oooh.

I've gouged a strip right outta the side of my leg there-orange threads stuck in the wound-blood on the sheets and

Clarity.

That cool cool clarity that only comes with a nice sharp sting.

It's all in ya head. I mean-heh-literally.

Withdrawal-betcha if I could see the time this would be _BEEP_ time-

Classical symptom of withdrawal: anxiety.

Along with a few others, my heart is stinging in my chest, I'm sweating, and hold out my hand and lookie right there-I've got the shakes.

(Pathetic the way the body can be trained to respond.)

First things first-

Dehydration.

Another day and night of this and the only time I'll see _the Bat_ is at my funeral.

(Me in my best suit-Him all got up in black-black for mourning-heh-bet He wears it for _years_)

So.

Go and find the water you told Possum to buy (nice one) and then check out your newest stab wound (unconscious defense mechanism-go ME) because infection

is a bitch.

So what if ya can't sleep-it's Christmastime!

The stations are choked with crappy movies-and I like crappy movies-because I can _think_.

No one ever suspects someone to be _thinking _while watching Christmas crap-which is why ya do it, remember?

Oh yeah.

Yep.

* * *

I escape from the bed, take big strides, (I can feel the pull, the skin splitting on the outside of my thigh-blood trickling down my calf-) yank open the door-

-and promptly fracture both my shinbones on the water bottles directly outside.

"Fuckgggaagghh-oohooHOO-geesheesh!"

Pinwheeling my arms, I stagger, narrowly avoiding a face-plant on the carpet, and instead end up flat on my back.

I lie there and giggle quietly (really should get up) but I'm tired and I've never really wanted to kill someone so much in all _my life_-but I sit there and listen to Deep Purple playing on the radio instead.

Hee hee.

Ouch.

_Smooooke_ on the water...

A fire in the sky.

Slice a hole in that shiny plastic, free a bottle, twist off the lid and take a swig. Nausea coiling in my stomach- I can smell roast chicken- twin pains of hunger and disgust.

Polish off the bottle, throw it awkwardly overhead and it bounces into the ensuite bathroom. Goal!

Crowd goes craz-y.

Snag a second bottle, roll back to my feet, ignore the feeling like someone drove a stake through my legs, pull the jumpsuit down and trickle water down my thigh. Blood turns pinkish, trails speeding away down my skin. It won't need stitches...probably scar though.

Good.

Now for the arm. Gonna need a mirror for this one. I head into the little bathroom, snap on the light, golden light tracing shadows into my scars. I've left the jumpsuit crumpled on the carpet (good riddance)-I look better without it on, if ya catch my drift.

Heh.

Hey, the old curvy scar low on my left hip-old smooth familiarity-there's a chain of bruises up my ribcage-and their purple-blue-black circles turn it into-it looks like-

It's a smiley face.

HA-haha ha Haaa.

There are stories etched into my flesh-and I can't help running my fingers over them-the ones on my face are just the most visible.

I am pink and white-dull red and blue-vibrant purple and yellow and black-head to toe: a masterpiece.

Cut, stabbed, shot, scraped, gouged and beaten.

And still smiling.

I look back into my own eyes thoughtfully.

Oh yeah.

My arm.

I lift it, turn it, study the mark Newbie left. It's incomplete- the knife snagged on the rough jumpsuit material- it's a scratch, incomplete, interrupted grooves. It's not deep enough for anything permanent.

Bad luck Newbie.

Ya just didn't leave enough of an...impression.

I step into the shower, crank the heat right up. I like it when the water pounds me, when I feel like the steam's gonna cook me like a lobster, when it's too hot and at any minute my skin's gonna start tearing off.

Water pressure's good here (I think of everything) so I lean against the wall (blink away the headache behind my eyes, force the room to behave and stop spinning) and let the water slam away.

* * *

Laura stands patiently in the line, ignoring the press of Christmas shoppers behind. She's in a little butcher's shop, not connected to any major shopping malls. It's small, out of the way, but always has a boom this time of year, because it stocks free-range produce, and with the recent spate of campaigning from The Gotham Animal Welfare League, it seems everyone's suddenly interested in how their Christmas dinners spend their short lives.

It's owned by Terry, a little fat New Yorker whose eyes are popping at the size of the crowd fighting to get through his doors, and he is bellowing orders at his two teenaged employees as they struggle to deal with the demand. Terry is never happier than when he's under stress and he winks at Laura when he spots her in the crowd. She sends him a rueful grin as she's shoved aside by a busy mother flanked by three small boys, all howling, their faces screwed up and beet-red.

She hates crowds, and she would give up and go somewhere else except Terry's already seen her and she really needs a turkey for this afternoon.

It's Christmas Eve and she's promised to help Possum make a traditional Christmas roast. She doesn't think he has many happy Christmas memories, and it will be good for him to create some positive new traditions in his life. He is getting better, truly, and she's made it a habit to go and look him up every few weeks. He always smiles when he opens the door and sees her... and it's nice to see patients recovering. That's all.

It's part of his therapy that a social worker should come and check up on him, and she's happy to do it. One of the nicer parts of a not altogether glamorous job. And he's a nice guy.

Her turn comes, and she steps up to the counter. Terry comes over, wiping off his greasy hands, and gives her a friendly grin. "Hey sweetheart, how ya goin'?"

She grimaces a little. "Oh fine, fine. You know how much I _love_ this time of year."

"Ah come on Lou, everyone loves the holidays. Even the whackjobs."

He sticks a meaty thumb over his shoulder, indicating the television hanging in the far corner.

"Says the Joker busted himself out last night. Killed two people, stole a car and crashed it into the harbour."

She looks over, sees a news report, footage of a crumpled sports car being lifted from the murky waters. The camera spins over the spectators. She notices a grim Commissioner Gordon amongst them, arms folded tightly, detectives and police officers swarming around him.

"So...do they think he's dead?"

The sound's been muted, and she can't pick out the threads of the story from the pictures, which switch back to a news anchor's serious face. Terry shrugs happily, uncaring.

"What can I get ya, Lou?"

"Oh..um...just a turkey thanks, Terry."

He waddles off, shouting orders, and she looks back at the television to see the Joker's skull-like visage dominating the screen. It's footage from one of his threats, the screen bouncing about wildly, the Joker's snarling grin, stained teeth, a hot red snapping mouth. She remembers his laugh all too vividly, shudders. She hopes they find him dead in the harbour.

A pimple-faced youth hands over a wrapped package, and she fumbles for her cash, dragging her eyes from the madman's silent merriment, a cold knot of unease in her chest.

* * *

The apartment door opens after her second knock. Possum's been waiting for her, Laura realises, and feels warm. "Hey, P! Merry Christmas!" She gives him a friendly peck on the cheek, and he shakes back his unruly dark hair and signs a greeting.

She steps into the warmth, starts picking off her baby-pink gloves.

"So, are we all ready for the big turkey cookout-"

But she's cut off by Possum's eager signs, his fingers flying in the air, his face transported with joy. Laura stops, confused, unable to decipher the tangle of meanings in his hand movements.

"Hey, hey, slow down P. What's wrong?"

She's the one who taught him most of his new signs, having dealt with deaf patients before. His repertoire is a mix of standard signs and his own set-picked up from a life in gangs, in criminal groups, some taught by his own brother, who was in deep in that business.

He keeps repeating one, the sign for 'family' and then pointing down the hallway. And as Laura pauses, she realises that his bedroom door is closed. She's never seen it closed.

"Who's back there, P?"

He repeats the sign for 'family' again.

Laura feels the first stirrings of anger.

"Is that your _brother_ back there?"

Possum nods gleefully.

His deadbeat brother, who's supposed to be doing time for the next few years. She's never met him, but she suspects that he's the one who started Possum off in the criminal underworld, and now, what, he's gotten out early and decided to crash at his brother's place? Pulling him back into a life of crime? Taking advantage of his loyalty? His hard-earned money?

Undoing all her hard work?

She's fuming now, and even though a little voice inside is telling her not to get involved in family business, that she's going to hurt Possum if she throws his brother out, that maybe confronting a convicted felon isn't the smartest thing to do- that white-hot flame of indignant anger is bright now and she hammers on the closed bedroom door furiously.

There's no answer.

Coward, she thinks viciously, and raises a fist to hammer on it again, when it springs abruptly open.

Laura freezes, one fist still in the air, unable to take in the reality of the horror before her.

He's wearing dark suit pants, a little too large, with the faintest purple pinstripes, with a dark leather belt cinched tight around his lean hips.

His feet are a startling white against the navy carpet, and terribly scarred.

His torso is bare-littered with angry lines, sharp, curving, rough scars- the viciousness of them scares her.

There is extensive bruising up his ribcage, a rainbow of colours.

His hair is dripping wet.

But this she notices as though in a dream- she's all taken up with-she can't stop staring at-his face.

_My God._

Skull-like, bone white paint caked on, stopping abruptly at his throat. Deep black hollows around his eyes. A twisted red slash of a mouth. The famous Chelsea grin.

That little sardonic glint in his eyes, the beginnings of an amused smirk behind the greasepaint-she knows her mouth is open-those dark pits of eyes rake her up and down.

She feels sick to her stomach. She needs, suddenly, to pee, the bottom dropping out of her stomach.

_Oh my God._

Laura has never been so afraid, never, not in her whole life.

The Joker lifts those dead devil-eyes from her, looks up to where Possum is standing in the hallway.

"Ya never told me ya had a _girl-friend!"_

Then his ear-shattering laughter breaks over her -and Laura drifts away, the world spinning to black.

* * *

**Author's Notes:** I meant to post this on Christmas Eve, but seeing as it's now 12:50am, (I've just got back from closing at work) I can say Merry Christmas instead!

Thanks go to **Viick's** and **CalmingChaos.** Your comments are appreciated and I hope Santa is good to you.

Just some things about this chapter: Meant to be longer, but I wasn't really in the zone/had enough time, so it's pretty much half the chapter I wanted to post.

"Smoke on the water, fire in the sky" is from Deep Purple's 'Smoke on the Water' song.

The part from The Joker's point of view has some line breaks in weird places. I'm using them not to signify a change of scene as such, but more a change in thought.

The Joker's dreams are not memories and I am not going to solve the scar mystery. I like him not having a background, and who can really say whether the stuff he dreams about actually happened to him? The girl stabbing a needle into her eye and being shot in the throat are both dreams I've had when I've been too hot in bed, and they were extremely vivid and scary.

Oh, and obviously at some point between the changing of points of view, stuff has happened. While Laura's shopping for turkey, The Joker's taken his shower, found some pants and applied his greasepaint. I do hint that he's done some stuff by having Laura look down the hallway and _not_ see the container of water bottles that Possum put there. Inference: The Joker has moved them to protect his shinbones from further abuse. Hope that was clear enough.

Also, I understand this fic is so far severely lacking in Batman/Joker interaction. However I am trying to set this fic up properly. One doesn't simply break out of Arkham and get straight into a fight with Batman, especially not without one's costumes, accessories, men and appropriate dasterdly scheme. Oh, and health. Detoxing can be an ugly thing.

**Next Chapter:** Will Laura live to see Christmas morning? Will Possum get to cook his turkey? All these questions and more will be answered.

Merry Christmas to all,

_**Taluliaka.**_


	9. Let It Snow!

**Gods of Chaos**

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* * *

**

**Disclaimer: **_See Chapter 1._

**Chapter 9: Let It Snow!**

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* * *

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Laura hears herself groan, as if from a thousand miles away. Everything is blurry, a corkscrew of colours. Her head pounds fiercely and her mouth is dry. She blinks hard, trying to shake away her fuzzy vision, focusing hard on the shape before her.

It's a table.

She tries to lift her arms, pain spiking through her arms. She can't move.

Laura twists, and rigid wood, unmoving, digs into her ribs. A chair. She's been tied to a chair.

What happened?

What's...what _is_ that?

The table is laden with food, a glistening cooked turkey its centrefold, surrounded by potatoes and roast vegetables. A side plate has carefully arranged slices of white bread, and a butter knife stands upright, stuck in a tub of butter beside the plate. There are Christmas crackers scattered around the table, and the coloured lights of the Christmas tree flicker over the plates and cutlery.

There is something...dreadfully wrong with the cheerful meal. Something...wrong, slipping away when Laura reaches for it.

Who...

She can hear laughter, faint, almost obscene in its hilarity. Recorded voices. Behind her, somewhere, a television is playing.

Laura yanks at her bound arms, a painful lump in her throat. She's afraid, and deep down, she knows there's only more to come.

Who has done it? She can't remember-why can't she remember-the door opening-and seeing-seeing-

Possum steps around her chair, and smiles down at her hopefully. He is crowned with a festive paper hat, from one of the crackers.

Laura stares up at him, frozen. Her heart banging in her chest, almost painfully.

She licks her lips.

"P...wh..what's happening? What..."

Her throat closes down, and she can't say anything else, tries to gulp down her tears.

Possum, still smiling in that strange way, looks back towards the television. She hears leather creak, every sense straining, hears footsteps muffled by thick carpet.

Then The Joker drops into the seat beside her.

* * *

"Hey _cute-ie_."

She shrinks back against the chair, muscles in her arms twitching-that animal instinct there again-tuggy tug tug-chew off your leg and start again.

"Hey...aw..._hey." _Stroke her shiny black hair, and she recoils-

Reach out-snag the tipping legs-pull her back.

Toppling chairs, fainting fits- what-everrr next?

"Ya know, Poss, I don't think much of ya girl. She don't got no...spark."

I snap my fingers inches from her nose.

Like a spooky movie, sweetheart, frights every second of the way. Heh.

Her lips twitch, and she glances past me to Possum. (Think ya got some-one in your corner, girly?)

"Please..."

I grab her chin-smooth-flesh-twist her gaze back to mine.

"Heard some baaaad things about ya, sweet-_heart_."

Confusion wrinkling her pretty forehead. Match her wrinkle-for-wrinkle, turn that smile upside down.

"Heard ya been giving my little...bro some drugs-ah."

Hold up the meds, give 'em a shake, little pills tumbling over each other.

Skin trembling under my fingers.

"They're...that's for the delusions...for the..."

"Deee-lus-i-on-sss?"

I flick my tongue out, just to watch her flinch.

"You...ah...saying that Possum is crazy?"

"I..."

Her eyes keep twirling away, seeking _him_ out-but that ain't happening.

"You saying...that I'm. Crazy?"

"No! No...I didn't e..."

"Do you wanna give me these _DRUGS, HUH? IS THAT RIGHT-UH_?"

"I'm sorry! I'm so sorry...I don't I don't I can't..._I can'tIcan'tICAN'T!"_

_

* * *

_

Wow.

What did I say-for some people

All it takes

Is a

Nudge.

Grip her chin tight, shake her head.

"Hey. Stoppit. Stop that."

Her tears are warm on my wrist.

Her eyes are crazy-rolling-right-back-into-her-head-now-_why-_can't-she-look-at-me-

Oh.

"Have we, ah, have we met before?"

Body says no, but eyes...

"Oh yes, I think we have...but I can't qu-ite seem to remember."

"Ferries."

"Pardon?" Half-deaf-so-sorry-what

Was

That?

Mumbling.

"I was on one of the ferries."

Aw, now she can't even look at me.

Hee

Hee-ha

Oh dear.

"Which one?"

"The civilians' one, of course!"

...

Oooh.

Them's fightin' words.

Her face drops, anger-horror, in a blink.

"I take it..." (oh and I will) "ya didn't like my little social experi-_ment_?"

She rocks back and forth, slamming her spine against the wood.

(It's nice sometimes, to feel something solid.

Keeps ya from vanishing

Completely

into your own crazy little head.)

Too scared to say no, but brave enough to interrupt my shower?

Fainting and spitfire, anger and...

_Guilt._

Oho yes.

_Guilt_ I can work with.

* * *

Laura can't look at him anymore. She wants to disappear, sink into her own skin, find a place where she can't hear him, see him_, smell_ him-words scratching under the surface.

Pain clawing in her head. Throat scratched, thorns spiking her skin.

"Water...please..."

She coughs, feels a detatched disgust at her own wretchedness. Whimpering, crawling to this-this _freak_-this killer!

There's a dull clink- a glass of water by her bowed head. The Joker is watching her curiously, head tilted to one side, like a little kid. Blonde curls hang over his eyes.

She shuts her eyes-prefers the darkness to his face.

Feels glass bump against her lips, tips her head back-and it's snatched away.

"Ya know...I was just curious...did ya feel anything at all...when ya signed their lives away?"

Laura stops.

All thoughts.

All fear.

Sucked away, sucked dry.

"Just curious. Hmm, I just think that's...impressive."

Disgust, bile rising. She wants to throw up that rottenness inside her, that profound wrongness.

Laura Krural, the woman who impressed The Joker.

You would always hope, that in the darkest of situations, that somehow, you would make the right decision.

Laura can't really remember all of that night-shock the paramedics called it-it almost felt like someone else, awkwardly grasping the pen- blue the colour of the ink- one blue word deciding the fate of a boatload of people-

No, of prisoners.

-Prisoners- somehow he knows, somewhere he's mockingly applauding, sharp slaps not blunted by purple leather.

Her head spins.

Numbly, she feels liquid trickle down her throat-chokes, gasps, greedy sucks-water spills from her lips.

And is wiped gently away.

* * *

Possum watches a droplet of water roll down Laura's throat. She is slumped sideways in her chair, half-conscious. The lights of the Christmas tree shimmer red-gold-green in her hair. He returns the glass to the table, can't resist glancing at the turkey.

He hasn't eaten for a while, and it is, technically, Christmas Day. The glow-in-the-dark hands on his watch glimmer on 12:03.

Possum is disappointed that Laura couldn't help him make the turkey- but she was asleep and watching The Joker work was too interesting to step away from. Efficient, economical movements, reaching for ingredients hidden in cupboards that he shouldn't know were there, as though his hands are guided. The entire lesson conducted in silence, Possum drinking it all in, the warm glow of happiness in hearing the oven door clang shut, turkey tucked safely inside.

He really wants them all to eat together- he set up the table especially for it- but now Laura is sleeping again, and The Joker has drifted away to stand in front of the television, his whirling knife blade reflecting the colourful screen.

Possum realises his hands are twisting at his clothes again, digging out tiny imperfections in the fabric and stretching them.

Making holes.

His brother gives an interested grunt, flourishes the remote at the television. It's another news broadcast, sombre tones and muted shades, a grey-haired man gazing out of the screen.

"-Joker is still at large tonight in Gotham City, following his escape from Arkham Asylum in the early hours of yesterday morning. Police have confirmed that at least two people were murdered by The Joker during his escape, Holly Blandine, aged twenty-six, who worked as a nurse in Arkham's hospital wing-"

Her image flashes up, a pale young woman with clouds of curly brown hair, a sleepy smile and deep green eyes.

"-and a young man whose identity the police are attempting to verify. A spokesperson for the Gotham force stated that it is believed the man was using an alias to work at the hospital, and may be involved in criminal dealings. The car The Joker is believed to have stolen for his getaway has been found wrecked in the harbour. Police divers have searched the area, but no body has been discovered-"

"Ha-ha-HAA-hoo-aha-haaa!"

Possum watches The Joker shake with pent-up amusement.

"-do not approach him, as he is considered to be armed and dangerous-"

"Ya got _that_ right Grand-paw!"

"-recognise this person, please call our hotline on screen now, or contact police."

A crudely-drawn sketch comes up on screen, a kid, clean-shaven, shoulder-length lank hair brushing his skinny shoulders.

The Joker half-turns away, his knife-bearing hand empty, pauses.

"In related news, police have released a list of persons they consider to be pertinent to this case. This list includes several people who are known to work at the asylum, including Doctor Richard Jacques and Doctor Harleen Quinzel. It is understood that Commissioner Gordon wishes them both placed under protective custody. Neither could be reached for comment. Now, in other news, the new Gotham Memorial Hospital has celebrated the opening of its Children's Ward with a visit from the big man himself. The children were very surprised to see Santa-"

The television fades, cutting off the report.

The Joker strides off down the hall, and is back within seconds, dragging a heavy coat over his lanky frame. His face is scrubbed clean of the smothering greasepaint.

He pauses only for a moment by the door, winding a green scarf over his neck and chin.

"Make sure she doesn't go before I get back, huh?"

Possum nods, tries to hide his confusion.

"_Good man._"

The Joker yanks the scarf up over his mouth and winks at him. The door slams and outside, fat snowflakes drift in the night air.

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

Thanks go to **Viick's** and **Slightly.** Your comments are appreciated. Thanks also to the authors who put this story on alert or in their favourites.

Chapter name is of course from the Christmas carol 'Let It Snow'. As in "The weather outside is frightful, but the fire is so delightful, and as we've no place to go, let it snow! Let it snow! Let it snow!"

Joker's comment about Laura wanting to chew her own leg off is him comparing her to a wild animal, like a fox. Foxes have been known to chew through their legs to escape traps.

Laura's last name 'Krural' is based on the Sanskrit girl's name 'Krura' meaning 'cruel or pitiless'.

Holly's last name is from the female martyr Saint Blandine/Blandina, who was killed by wild animals.

I will be away for two weeks starting tomorrow, so the next update won't be for a while. I'm taking my ideas notebook with me though, and there shall be many late night scribbling sessions.

**Next Chapter:** Christmas Day: Peace on earth and goodwill towards men may not be The Joker's intention.

See ya in two weeks,

_**Taluliaka.**_


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